Elongating My Lift Home
by WalkingCatastrophe
Summary: You know it's not fair for either of you, that you're taking advantage of him just as much as he's taking advantage of you, that you feel like shit and so does he, that this will end up badly, can only end up badly, that this is wrong, wrong, wrong, but if there's someone out there that might understand… (One-sided GamTav, implied GamKar, angst)


**A/N:****Initially inspired by 'Cornerstone' ( watch?v=LIQz6zZi7R0) but as the story progressed took a mind of its own.**

Your name is Gamzee Makara, it's been 6 months since you last saw Him, and you're starting to grow desperate.

"C'mon. It's _The Battleship_. You know it's His favorite bar. He has to be here."

You see Karkat's jaw clench, and you know he's trying his best to swallow whatever he wanted to say. Not that it matters: there's nothing he could say that you don't already know.

Still, you appreciate the effort.

"He has to be here. He has to." you say, and as time passes it's become less of a statement and more of a mantra, of a prayer.

You both sit there, Karkat fidgeting with the coaster while you let the ice on your second glass of scotch melt. Your eyes scan the crowd, and you can't help but look every time you hear the door open. It's never been Him. So far.

Until,

"I think I saw Him" you say, and you all but jump out of the stool. "I saw Him, KK, I saw him"

When you try to stand up all the alcohol hits you at once, and you briefly wonder just how much time did you spend sipping on that drink.

"I'm gonna go over there… I n-need to see him closer"

He doesn't say anything, just watches you leave with tired eyes, and he takes your glass and caresses the place your hands had been with the tip of his fingers.

20 minutes later he's still staring into the general direction you'd gone when you come back, snatch the glass from his hand and finish the now watery drink in one go.

Karkat raises one eyebrow, but you know before he can formulate the question that he already knows the answer.

Your brain feels fuzzy, like it's trying to walk through water, and everything seems distant, like a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy. But the pain doesn't. The pain's probably the only vivid thing in your life right now.

"It wasn't Him" you say, more to fill the silence than anything else.

You lean on the bar and you know by the quick movement of his eyes that he's wondering just how much of that is deception, and how much genuine inability to stand.

"I… I saw… he had a mohawk… I thought… I was so sure… I just..."

"C'mon. Give me your car keys. I'll take you home", he says.

Back in the good days, he was all anger, he yelled and shouted and filled the room with his voice echoing how stupid you were being. Now the only thing you hear in his voice is defeat, like he ran out of fuel. Like he stopped trying.

You really, really hope he's his normal self with everyone else. You really, really hope he's just given up on you alone.

He fastens your seatbelt for you and through your hazed state you can feel his touch lingering for a bit too long, and you know the way his fingers stroke your cheek when he makes sure your head's uptight is not accidental.

You also notice how he turns left on the crossroad.

Turning right leads you straight to the motorway, which would leave you in your apartment in seven minutes tops. Left is a maze of streets and alleys, traffic lights and turns. You won't be home for at least half an hour.

He works in an office not far from here. He takes this route twice a day. He knows.

And you know.

You know how he sneaked glances at you all the way back in High School, how you could almost hear his heart beating when you were paired together for that stupid science project he ended up doing on his own while you played videogames on his XBox, how your screen flashed "Typing…" for half an hour before you received the first text message he ever sent you.

It was a "HEY."

You know, you know and you feel like shit, but then he turns on the radio, and His favorite song is on, the one He always used to sing when he was driving, trying to keep up humming with the fast pace of the rap while you chuckled and wondered if you could ever be more in love.

If you close your eyes, you can still pretend it's Him driving and not Karkat. If you close your eyes and pretend hard enough, you can still smell His scent on the leather seat.

So you let Karkat take the long way round.

Rain hits you hard, drops hitting cold and merciless against your face, and they feel like daggers while you stand outside the front door, and you glance at the flashing neon sign.

_The Rusty Hook._

Karkat looks at you, wet hair sticking to his face. You'd laugh at him and tell him he looks like a drenched rat, were things different. Were you still yourself, and not this empty shell you've been inhabiting for what feels like an eternity.

As it is, you just look at him, pleading eyes, and explain:

"This is the only bar nearby that serves that import beer He likes. He has to be here."

He enters before you, and you still have half a mind to feel self-conscious about how the wind has tangled up your hair and now probably looks wild instead of those waves you know

He liked to run his fingers through.

But Karkat tugs your sleeve, and you keep going.

Karkat asks for a beer, and your face tightens as you are suddenly flooded with memories of tasting malting barley on someone else's tongue, on his tongue, and when the bartender politely tells your friend that they do no longer import belgian beer, but he has Guinness if he'd rather, he says yes and you ask for a whiskey, because your biggest track just banished and you can't bear.

You're turning around with both your drinks to bring them to your table, when you nearly knock them over.

"Kar… Kar it's Him." you elbow him.

He bites his lip.

You know.

"I swear this time it's Him. Over there, on the wicker chair."

He sighs.

You know.

"I'm gonna go talk to Him."

You leave, and he stares in your general direction with unfocused eyes. He takes a gulp at your whiskey.

As soon as you arrive, you know it's not Him.

You knew it wasn't Him even before you got up from your seat.

The stranger's nose is too big, his hair a shade darker, but he has His eyes. Those gorgeous brown orbs you felt yourself get lost into, until He chuckled and told you you were being stupid when you said you saw the Universe in them.

You talk to the person attached to those eyes, you make small talk and he gets more affectionate by the moment, and as much as you try to focus on what he's saying you can't go past his eyes, how the resemblance is uncanny, and when he tells you excitedly about something from his work or whatever your mind drifts back to those times when you silenced Him with a kiss just for the fun of it.

You don't silence the stranger with a kiss, not because he doesn't seem willing to (he more than does), but because they're a bit too thin, a bit too rough, and no amount of pretending would make you believe they are His.

When you come back to your table, Karkat's waiting for you with your coat in his hand.

You notice the glass you ordered is now empty, and so's his beer. You don't recall ever taking a sip from either of them.

This time, you both take the subway.

Green line.

The blue line goes straight through the city center to your apartment, while the green line circles the whole city before reaching your destination. You know because you took it daily to go to college.

He knows.

And you know.

You know how paper-thin his disguise was, how he crossed his arms and tightened his lips whenever you talked about Him. How one day you came to him with a goofy smile and dreamy eyes, and told him He had said yes. How he couldn't speak to you for a week.

You know, and you feel like shit, but when you both sit on the train and he lets you rest your head on his shoulder, you realize his coat tickles in your face in a similar way His did when you hugged Him on Central Park when it started snowing and a snowflake landed on his nose, when you needed to lean on Him because you felt like you were going to burst from the butterflies in your stomach.

If you close your eyes, you can still get lost in that memory, and maybe you'll get Karkat to lend you the coat so you can fall asleep on it, and maybe actually manage to rest for a change.

So you let Karkat take the long way round.

The tables are sticky. There's writing on the walls. The K in the "Parrot's Beak" is missing.

You know He'd never get into a place like this, and neither would you. But you're running out of places to look into, and you're not taking any risk.

This time, Karkat voices his hesitation.

"It reeks of ashtrays."

He hated that smell. You used to smoke a packet a day.

You stopped for Him. He's not even here anymore, and in a way, you're still doing it for Him.

"One drink", you promise, and you hide the fact that you'll be asking for their stronger stuff. He didn't have anything against drinkers.

You finish it in one go while Karkat is still paying for the drinks, and when he sits you say.

"To your left. Can only see his back, but it's Him. It's Him. This time I swear it's Him."

Karkat doesn't even have to look at you.

The guy you just described is well on his fifth cigarette, if the ashtray next to him is anything to go by.

"I heard him talk. He has the same voice."

But in the end when you approach it's not the same, it's deeper, and the stranger doesn't even look like Him at all, you know no amount of alcohol could ever dull your senses enough for you to be able to pretend it's him.

Still, you can try.

At least, if you don't achieve it, your brain will still be fuzzy enough to pretend it's all been a bad dream, and that you're still coming home to Him.

So you drink, you drink because you've been clean of the other stuff for years, you stopped even before He came into your life and you swore nothing would get you down that path again, that no amount of pain you'd experience would compare to feeling like your life was no longer your own.

But you need to numb the pain. So you drink.

Karkat has to physically drag you when the bartender tells you it's time to close, and this time it's close enough to home that you can go walking.

Karkat heads you south.

If you go north you'll head straight to the main street and it's just left from there, but if you go south you have go go through the park and the residential areas. You've lived in this neighborhood your whole life, you know these streets by heart.

Karkat knows.

You know.

You know how he looks at you with pain in his eyes when he thinks you're not looking, you've overheard him talk on the phone to your mutual friends, whispering in a hushed tone and you know it's about you, about Him, because He has become the elephant in the room and now every time you meet up it's not the same, it will never be, not as long as you keep staring into space and they keep avoiding even holding hands with their significant others, fearing that you might break down crying. You know how Karkat hates Him for doing this to you, hates you for not letting him be to you what He never could, hates himself for being so selfish.

You know, and you feel like shit, but when Karkat walks so close to you you can feel his body heat, and brings back so many memories you feel like you might drown, but if he leaves then all there's left would be cold, empty cold, and you know it's not fair for either of you, but...

You let Karkat take the long way round.

It's the first weekend in a month you haven't spent looking for Him then getting drunk off your ass.

And you realize your life's gone to hell when that's what worries your best friend the most.

He comes to your bedroom and turns on the light, but you look at him and he instantly turns it off again, leaving you both in near darkness save for the dim lights of the starks He drew on your ceiling with glow-in-the-dark paint, taking the time to research the constellations and recreate them to the milimeter.

He said He'd always wanted to make love to the sight of the stars, and that was the closest He'd ever dare to get.

You said you'd take Him camping. You never had the chance to.

Karkat lies in your bed next to you, and you can feel his muscles tense as much as he tries to look relaxed. You know he's trying his best not to lean into you, and on one hand you want him to let it go for a change, but on the other hand you are certain you will cry if you feel someone else's skin while looking at His stars.

You both stay silent.

But then, out of the blue, you whisper.

"You met Him, right?"

It's kinda funny, kinda sad, how you don't even have to say His name for anyone to know you're talking about Him.

"I… I did, yeah, of course, why do you ask?"

You let it sink in.

"He was real." you say, and you realize that for a moment you really needed to hear that because you actually didn't believe it.

It would be much easier to explain if He were just a figment of your imagination. Something your brain made up to show you how happy you could be before it took it away from you.

It would be much easier to know there was no way you could find Him, that He wasn't out there, somewhere, you just had to look a bit harder…

You feel more than see a hand caress your cheek, and you appreciate the effort, you really do, but the hand's not right, too small, skin too rough, and it's like trying to put on a glove two sizes too small.

It's gotten to the point, though, where the cold's so unbearable you'd put on whatever glove you could get for your hands not to freeze.

This time you go alone, because it pains you to see the look on Karkat's face and you can't bear it, not when this will be the worst of them all.

This is your last shot.

You've searched each and every possible bar, checked every name on the list but one that hurts the most. The one you've been trying to avoid. The one you're currently in front of.

The Cornerstone.

You enter.

And he's there.

Not Him, him.

Karkat.

He's talking over the phone with someone, and you remember he's said something about a friend of a friend from work, and you've flashed him a smile that didn't reach your eyes and said you're glad he's finally got a date. By the look on his face, you know said date isn't going to happen. And the way he fidgets with the sticker on the bottle looks eerily similar to the way He did when you first met, and he stammered his way through the most awkward conversation you've ever had, looked at you with wide eyes when he realized you hadn't left, and flashed you the smile that got you head over heels for Him ever since.

Karkat sees you, hungs up, and tries to strike a neutral pose, but it's been years, and you can read him like a book.

Defeat, sadness, guilt, hope, love, hope, guilt, sadness, defeat.

You smile at him.

He smiles back.

You look at him, and you know.

You know it's not fair for either of you, that you're taking advantage of him just as much as he's taking advantage of you, that you feel like shit and so does he, that this will end up badly, can only end up badly, that this is wrong, wrong, wrong, but if there's someone out there that might understand…

He finishes his drink, sighs deeply, and stands up.

"Yes, you can call me his name"

**A/N:Friendly reminder than the lyric "She was close/Close enough to be your ghost" in the original song implies that the person the song's about is probably dead, so...**

**Yeah. Not a friendly reminder at all.**


End file.
